


Child of Sparks and Ashes

by Avana



Series: Sparks and Ashes [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Always a sarcastic shit Loki, Author does what she wants, Awesome Frigga, BAMF Frigga, BAMF Loki, Cinderella AU (kinda), F/M, Frigga Lives, Good Loki, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Improved by Frigga, Loki Does What He Wants, Loki and OC-centric, Mainly MCU verse, Maybe some comic-verse but I don't know the comics well, Odin's B? parenting, Post-Marvel Canon, Semi Slow Burn, Some instances of Norse Mythology, because Frigga is awesome, but still kinda asshole Loki, loki doppelganger, with made up Seiðr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8436379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avana/pseuds/Avana
Summary: The Infinity War has ended and Thanos is dead at long last. Thor has formally abdicated the Throne in favor of patrolling the Nine Realms. And thus, Loki finally has a throne.Unfortunately, there is one problem. If Loki wants the crown then he has to get married.“…What?” Loki, Silvertongue, Lie-Smith, undisputed master of words, had been reduced to a rather pitiful response.





	1. Beginnings

“…What?” Loki, Silvertongue, Lie-Smith, undisputed master of words, had been reduced to a rather pitiful response.

“You will find a woman to be your Queen within the decade or I will die on this throne. If Thor ever has a son, it will pass to him.” A mere century ago it would have been unthinkable that the last barrier between Loki and a throne would be marriage.

Thor.

His heritage.

The Void.

War.

Prison.

The Infinity War.

All things that occluded a crown Loki had been taught to crave until he went mad with it.

However, let it never be said that Loki couldn’t rally quickly even when flabbergasted. “Surely, a decade is a rather short period of time to find someone worthy of being _Queen_?”

Odin snorted. “You can thank Frigga that you have a decade; I intended to give you a year.”

 _Of course you did_. The derisive thought didn’t even put a furrow in Loki’s brow.

A hundred other thoughts whirled through his mind as he searched for an angle. He had little desire for a wife, but no desire for the political mechanizations involved with being an unwed (now, Crown) Prince. “…Very well, but permit me to find a Queen in my own way. If I am to do this, then I want no interference from you.”

The old King frowned ever so slightly. _Frigga, I trust you to be correct about this._ Reluctantly, the King allowed it.

“Swear it.”

Odin Allfather swore.

* * *

“Ylva!”

Skirts rustled as a young woman moved swiftly down the hall. Upon reaching the correct room she entered with a curt bow. “My lady?”

“How indolent you are today, girl,” an older woman announced with noticeable scorn. She scowled, “Dagný and Gyða tell me that you have been failing in your duties, that their court gowns are unacceptable and their accessories are substandard. What do you have to say for yourself?”

The younger woman bowed slightly deeper, “My apologies, my lady, the tailor and jeweler both assured me that they gave me only the finest of products. If the Ladies Dagný and Gyða are unsatisfied, mayhap they should take it up with them?”

“Hold your tongue, girl!” She snapped as she rose in a flurry of fine silks and artfully braided blond curls. “Now get out; I tire of seeing your face.”

Hiding a smirk in the waves of her red hair, the young woman left as ordered.

It had been risky to speak back to _Lady_ Hildr with such cheek. Any other time, Ylva would have been punished without fail for her audacity; regardless of how flawless she knew the gowns and jewels to be and how petty the sisters. Thankfully, Hildr cared much more for preparing the two for the upcoming Presentation Gala, and could not be bothered to waste time berating her.

* * *

Loki was bored.

And exasperated.

The two were not unusual feelings for him to experience, especially when enduring the trials of Æsir celebrations.

Admittedly though, it was novel for the celebration to be entirely about him and for it to be his own idea at that. Unfortunately, with Odin’s proposal he had little choice but to go about his search this way. Loki was skilled in many things: seiðr, seduction, and silver-tongued speech craft to name a humble few, but even he could not efficiently meet all the eligible woman across the Nine Realms by traveling.

…Well, to be fair it was really more like three...and a half. At best.

After all, Loki would certainly not take a wife from Niflheimr. Too cold for one. Besides, ancient beings and even more ancient, wild seiðr filled that land. Not wifely material.

Múspellsheimr would all but guarantee Surtr would have his head, and he was quite attached to that thank you very much. (The dwarves had no luck at obtaining such from him, and giants would fail in such endeavors as well.)

Speaking of dwarves, Svartálfaheimr was not an option either. Between the dwarves and the dark elves, it was not even worth considering.

...Jötunheimr. No.

And as for Helheimr? Loki lusted after many things, but the dead was not among them and neither was his daughter.

That left Ásgarðr, Vanaheimr, Álfheimr, and, reluctantly, Miðgarðr. Contrary to popular belief, Loki had few qualms with Miðgarðr. The debacle with the Avengers embittered him, but it had been a hundred years and any lingering resentment had faded. However, the people of Miðgarðr still remembered him vividly and he had little patience for the hassle that would cause. The knowledge that Odin would have to grant immortality to a mortal should Loki take a wife from there almost made it worth it though. Almost.

The approach of another hopeful Lady disrupted his ponderings. She batted her eyes at him coquettishly even as she kept her face coyly tilted downward. Upon reaching him she dipped into a respectful curtsy, her eyes attempting to slyly peak at him through her lashes.

“My Prince.”

“My Lady,” his reply was instantaneous and mindless as he quickly scanned her form. She was attractive, but in the way that every other woman present was attractive. They all seemed so interchangeable; tall and slim women clad in the richest silks, jewels, and metals their families could afford. Hair of varying shades pinned into elaborate styles. This one was no different. Tall. Slim. Fancy attire. Blonde haired and blue-eyed. (A combination that reminded him of Thor, which did not earn the woman any points with him).

She smiled at him, oblivious to his disinterest. “I am Dagný, my Prince. It is an honor to be able to attend this night.”

He nodded and brushed his lips against her extended hand as custom dictated. “The honor is mine, Lady Dagný.” Her smile widened and a dusting of pink bloomed across her cheeks. She proceeded to chatter inanely at him. He made all the appropriate responses, but did not process a single word she said.

He already regretted his own system. Methodical. Logical. Efficient. And dreadfully dull and tedious.

* * *

_“I swore my oath, Loki. Now you want aid?”_

_“Hardly **aid** , All **father**. The Galas would be serving a royal function, a perfectly acceptable use of Valaskjálf. Besides, these halls are no strangers to far more rambunctious celebrations of Æsir revelry.”_

_"How many celebrations do you intend?”_

_"Twelve. A week long hosting every first week of the month.”_

_“And you claim that is not aid,” Odin rebuked._

_“The Realms contain many women,” Loki quipped._

_“Odin,” Frigga graciously cut in, “this is no burden to us. Loki is our son.”_

_Clever-Loki thought he got his way at Odin’s expense, but ultimately his equally cunning mother knew just who would suffer._

* * *

“Do you not agree, my Prince?”

The minute fraction of his consciousness that had been giving the woman any attention at all was quick to reply lest she catch on to his lack of regard. Unlikely as that was. “Not at all, glamorous as Valaskjálf may be, the gardens of Queen Frigga are lovelier by far.”

“Oh, they sound wondrous, my Prince! May I tour them?” She looked hopefully at him, no doubt expecting him to offer to escort her.

“At your leisure.” This time she discerned his clear dismissal, and her face noticeably fell. Disappointment quickly faded, but rekindled into indignant anger that flashed through her eyes. The attempts she made to conceal it from him were amateur at best.

Arrogant. Predictable. And as subtle as a bilgesnipe at a banquet table. Had he not already dismissed her from the list of viable candidates he would have done so now.

They exchanged empty platitudes, and the woman – child, considering her demeanor – marched off in a huff.

Seemingly from nowhere, Frigga now stood at his right, appearing resplendent as always. Looking at her made it immediately clear whom all those Ladies were trying to emulate. After all, Frigga was also a tall and slender women clad in the elegant drape of Æsir apparel. She too wore her hair pinned and woven into a sophisticated style of curls and braids. Yet the difference between those girls and the Queen could not be more clear; those girls played a part, while Frigga embodied it.

“You shall not find a wife if you treat them all so.”

Loki offered her a half-smirk. “And I desire to not find a wife such as her.”

“Loki…”

He dropped his airs in response to her soft entreaty. The Trickster faded into the Prince. “Mother, this is already the second Gala of the second Season. I have witnessed four other gatherings indiscernible from this one.” At his mother’s look he admitted, “Yes, it is unfair that I regard each successive cohort with increasing disdain and decreasing regard. Even so I doubt the woman I would want as Queen will be among those shamelessly clamoring for attention.

“Besides,” he continued some of his sardonic nature returning, “I do not know of any Queen who ascended with ease. Nor King, for that matter either.”

The Queen smiled. “You have grown, my son. Perceptive, even of yourself.”

* * *

Ylva’s eyes snapped open to the sound of Dagný’s cacophonous return.

“Pick that up!” Dagný’s voice screeched from somewhere down the hall. The manor practically shook with her rage as she stormed through the place, and Ylva hurried to her door to glimpse the havoc Dagný wreaked in her fury. Peering into the hallway, Ylva managed to glimpse the second of Dagný’s shoes hurtling down the corridor. The yell that woke her had been some other servant being sent after the first one.

Dagný continued to shriek and hurl pieces of her wardrobe everywhere. An earring. A necklace. Even swaths of once fine fabric torn from her dress. Then, the infuriated girl paused, seeming to remember something.

“Ylva!” She called maliciously. “Get out here and attend to me!” The command was unsurprising, but unfortunate all the same. With a sigh and a bow Ylva emerged from her room.

“My Lady.”

“Follow me!” Dagný seethed as she harshly snatched Ylva’s arm. Dagný may not have been particularly strong, but she purposefully dug her nails in and clenched her fingers tightly. Upon reaching her chambers, Dagný threw the door open and shoved Ylva inside. Well used to such treatment, Ylva barely stumbled.

Flinging her door shut, Dagný proceeded to hurl herself into the chair by the vanity. Now locked away in her room, the tempestuous girl deflated and without warning burst into loud sobbing. Her tears were messy; fat droplets streaked down her face as her cheeks turned a splotchy red.

“M-mother said I had a ch-chance,” the girl hiccuped miserably. “Was I- was I not beaut-tiful e-enough?” She punctuated her sorrowful question by shoving a hair brush in Ylva’s direction. Wordlessly, Ylva picked up the brush and began to straighten and tame the mess that Dagný’s hair had become. Dagný sniffed loudly and straightened her back even as tears continued to stream from her eyes.

“Well,” she said with a bit more strength, “at least I received an invitation. Not even Gyða has one yet.” She smirked shakily and continued, “And if Gyða does not have one then the likes of you has no chance.” If Dagný expected a response, then she would be disappointed. Even if Ylva had cared about the Gala she would have known better than to reveal such.

Several moments passed in relative silence, disrupted only by Dagný’s steadily calming breaths. “Enough,” she snapped batting Ylva’s hands away, “cease touching me.” She opened her mouth to speak again when the doors flung open for a second time.

Lady Hildr swept in imperiously with Gyða on her heels. Hildr’s gaze swept over the room, momentarily glaring at Ylva, before settling on the form of her eldest daughter.

“Well, I see you failed.” Another disdainful glance was sent at her daughter’s unkempt appearance. “Spectacularly, by the looks of you.” Dagný stiffened, but remained stoic, entirely unlike her earlier display. Hildr nodded in approval. “Yes, my dear girl, you will not falter. The Prince is a fool to not see your worth. That is his loss.” Ylva withheld a contemptuous snort.

Seeming to sense Ylva’s derision, Hildr rounded on her and barked out an order, “You, go attend Gyða. Ensnaring the Prince falls to her now.” As always, privileges and honors, _even invitations from the Crown Prince_ , were simply expected when it came to Gyða.

Gyða smiled as she pivoted gracefully on her heel and started to make her way to her own chambers. With another bow and a short “my lady,” Ylva left Dagný to her mother. A nearly imperceptible cringe passed over her face as sharp words of censure leaked through the door.


	2. Galas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of Loki in this one; Ylva needed some time to shine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm impressed with my own update speed. Don't get used to this.

“These are fine pieces.” Gyða remarked holding up a golden chandelier earring to her face. She tilted her head, observing how it complimented her skin tone. “Do you not agree, little servant?”

“Indeed, my Lady.” The reply was ingrained to be a gentle, conciliatory tone. Ylva veered more toward a professional monotone, but regardless, none of her true feelings echoed in her voice anymore. Not when addressing the sisters or Hildr at least, and in most cases, sad as it was, that was a good thing. At the very least, it hid her vexation at being called “little servant” well.

Ylva was neither younger nor shorter than Gyða. Considering Ylva was in fact older than Dagný, a sliver taller than Hildr, and was forced to name herself servant, it was an entirely inaccurate label. However, that was Gyða’s game and it was only one of the many tactics she employed to remind her of her place.

And in the wake of one of Dagný’s explosive shows, Ylva had to remember which of the sisters required vigilance to handle. After all, both Dagný and Gyða made it a sport to taunt, berate, inconvenience, and generally make a nuisance of themselves at her expense. However, Dagný constantly and openly showed her mockery. She was prone to noticeable fits of temper and enjoyed shoving Ylva around with either her words or her body, or even any convenient object within her reach. The meltdown after the Gala, while larger in magnitude, was fairly typical of the girl. And if Ylva was honest, Dagný was little more than a truly pitiful child; she had all the things a girl could want and none of the things she needed. With that in mind, Ylva could simply endure, and in her more generous moments even feel a sliver of pity.

Gyða was different. On the surface, she seemed be easier to handle; she did not try to dig her nails into Ylva’s skin or shove her to the floor. No, Gyða almost never touched her, instead she enjoyed using seemingly benign comments to insult her. More than that though, Gyða was purposefully malicious in a way Dagný was not. Yes, Dagný had tantrums and used Ylva as a convenient target for her ire, but Gyða went out of her way to ensure as many of her actions affected Ylva as possible. She took every chance she had to insult her and give her mother reasons to insult and punish her. If there was a way to make Ylva’s tasks longer or harder, she took it. If Gyða noticed Ylva wanted something, she ensured Ylva did not receive it. And Gyða never shied away from personal matters; if it could be exploited, she used it.

So while, Dagný may have been petulant, Gyða was cruel.

“You would do well to stop daydreaming, little servant. I would hate to have to report your ineptitude to mother.” Hardly any time had passed since Gyða had asked about the earring, and Ylva’s expression had barely changed. Unfortunately, Gyða had a preternatural gift for sensing weakness and she would pounce at the slightest opportunity.

“My apologies, my Lady. Are you well pleased with your selections?”

“For the moment,” Gyða uttered as her eyes swept over a neat display of various jewelry pieces, all iterations of gold chain, intricate designs, and stunningly cut emeralds. After critically eyeing a particularly elaborate necklace, Gyða rose to her feet, smoothing the silk of her skirts as she moved.

“You have retrieved my gown, yes?” Without waiting for an answer she continued, “Excellent. Attend me; Loki will be unable to cast his gaze elsewhere. Green and gold do compliment me so well.”

Ylva began removing Gyða’s current attire and made a subtle jab of her own, “Your features will compliment Prince Loki’s colors well.” For once, Gyða said nothing, as all her attention seemed to be focused on scrutinizing her image in the mirror. Perhaps, she had not caught the insinuation that she could only compliment the colors and not vice versa. She was certainly ignoring Ylva’s subtle rebuke for addressing the Prince without his title.

Slowly, her outfit came together piece by piece and, as much as Ylva disliked Gyða, she could objectively admit that the final result was stunning. Gyða was a natural beauty with gentle waves of honey gold hair and exotic golden eyes. The accents of the jewelry and intricate patterns on the bodice matched her eyes while highlighting the lighter sections of her hair. A simple, braided side bun added a tasteful asymmetry, while a line of emeralds, falling just above her breasts, naturally drew eyes to her generous bosom.

Gyða took a few more moments to admire her own reflection, and then a wicked glint appeared in her eyes. Her fingers moved to toy with the emerald necklace around her throat as she mused aloud, “This necklace is not quite sufficient...” A feeling of dread began to fill Ylva. Gyða tilted her head with faux innocence as she looked askance at her, “Little servant, do you not have that one lovely necklace?”

The urge to physically assault Gyða had never been so strong. Knowing well giving in to such an urge would only invite disaster, Ylva managed to say, in a surprisingly steady voice, “Surely, such a piece would coordinate poorly with your wardrobe.”

“What defiance,” Gyða smirked, “That is for me to decide. Now, bring me that necklace.” While her tone grew steadily more commanding her smirk never left her face.

“...Yes, my Lady.” Ylva bit out. With a stiff bow, she swept from the room, barely managing to keep her stride normal, and all too quickly reached her room. For a moment, she stood there imagining the wood grain of her door held all the answers. Eventually, she took a steadying breath knowing the time until Gyða set her mother on her grew closer by the second.

She opened and closed the door swiftly, leaning against the inside, and took another deep breath. As she exhaled her eyes slid shut and an image of the necklace appeared in her mind. It had an eye catching design, but was overall a simple piece made of carved wood on a silver chain. While it would not clash with Gyða’s dress it would not compliment it either. _The only reason she wants it_ , Ylva’s mind snarled, _is because she knows that it was my mother's._

With another breath her eyes opened once more. Her gaze shifted to peer down at the necklace now held tightly in her grasp. This time a satisfied smirk decorated Ylva’s face. Well, a duplicate shall have to suffice. After all, what if it snaps? It is only wood, and I will not allow the original to be so damaged.

Ylva quickly headed back to Gyða’s chambers, making sure to rearrange her expression into the carefully blank mask only the truly enraged wore. “The necklace, my Lady.” She announced in a deathly quiet tone.

Gyða’s smirk widened. “Lovely. I was just about to request that mother fetch you.” Quick as a snake, Gyða snatched the necklace up and fastened it around her throat. A spark of real anger crossed Ylva’s face as she saw how the authentic one would have been treated. Thankfully, it helped sell her act as Gyða continued to smile with malicious glee.

Gyða stood after a glance in the mirror. “Perfect,” she purred running a hand to smooth imaginary creases from her gown. Her other hand lightly caressed the whirls of the necklace. Gyða continued to rub her victory in Ylva’s face as she glided toward the door still fiddling with the necklace, the smile never leaving her face.

Right before she left, Gyða tossed another malevolent smirk over her shoulder. “Oh, and do not believe for a moment that I have forgotten your disrespect. But I suppose your punishment shall have to wait until after I return. Consider it my wedding present.” With a playful wink, she finally departed genuinely delighted by her own cruelty.

* * *

Loki found himself staring blankly up at his ceiling only half-clothed and in no hurry to properly attire himself. The next Gala was set to officially start in oh, a few minutes, but he could not care less. More accurately, he cared strongly about _not_ attending.

Frankly, the last Gala managed to instill some genuine dismay in him which, for a creature such as Loki, was distressingly impressive. The girl-child that had stormed off in a huff had not quit. She hovered around him the entire week and took any opportunity to wriggle her way into his conversations and make incessant useless commentary. Any time she was remotely near him, she crept as close to him as possible. If it were socially acceptable, he had no doubt that she would have clung to him like a limpet.

Loki, plotter that he is, had planned for the eventuality of ceasing to honestly invest time in the Galas, but he had intended to wait until after the Sixth Gala to begin sending Doubles. Thankfully, this was the Sixth. Not to say that he had any compunctions about breaking rules, even his own, but recently everything had been about second chances and redemption and all that sickeningly, sentimental drivel Thor loved to go on about.

With a half sigh, Loki acknowledged that it was the same sentiment his mother believed in too. _Very well_ , he thought exasperated, _these Galas have one last chance to surprise me_.

* * *

Loki was not surprised.

Nor impressed for that matter.

 _Well, this is disappointing_ , he thought to himself, _but hardly a shock_. Ironically, as he finished this thought, he spotted an odd occurrence at the periphery of the hall. His brow rose in minor intrigue and he began to make his way over. After all, it was quite rare for the Queen to be talking to one of their _esteemed guests_.

By the time he reached the two figures, the girl had already started to make a hasty departure, and he caught a flash of apprehension on her face as she rushed away. _Apparently nervous enough that she failed to notice my approach_ , Loki thought with rising interest.

“How peculiar,” he remarked. “Something of interest, Mother?”

Loki turned to face her and noted, with a jolt of surprise, a slight furrow in her brow. “Mother?” His second inquiry sounded with an edge of mild concern. At his second call, Frigga snapped out of her daze.

“It is nothing, my son. I thought I recognized something of her’s, but I was mistaken.” The Queen offered a reassuring smile, “I believe she was simply a bit flustered by my regard.” Loki gave her the skeptical look this deserved, but his mother only laughed lightly. “Honestly, she was simply overwhelmed. Her sister, Dagný as I recall, attended the last Gala. That poor girl had such difficult time, I think the knowledge of that ordeal unnerved her.”

Loki grimaced slightly, instantly dissuaded. “I see.” As he turned away to seek new entertainment he missed the contemplative expression that crossed Frigga’s face.

* * *

The burn of her servant’s cuff jolted Ylva from her sleep. It was heating to a painful level which could only mean someone was calling on her very forcefully. Peering down at the band she noted with honest surprise that it was Gyða that was summoning her. Gyða, who was most definitely at the Palace.

As vicious as Gyða was, she would not disrupt her own night with the Prince to bother Ylva. It had to be a genuine summons, and considering the urgency of it, Ylva would have to teleport to respond in time. The last time Ylva had teleported within view of one of the three she had received twenty lashes and went a week without food. Gyða had to be truly desperate for some reason.

Ylva considered not answering, any trouble of Gyða’s was well earned in Ylva’s opinion, but the cuff had gotten so hot her skin was beginning to blister. With considerable consternation, Ylva teleported.

Upon arriving, she barely had time to take in Gyða’s pale face before her mother’s necklace was thrust into her hand. “Take this and leave!” She hissed. Uncharacteristically, Gyða made no attempt to taunt her as she whirled back toward the main Hall. Perturbed, Ylva looked down at the replica of her mother’s necklace. With a frown she slowly curled her fingers over it and it dissipated into golden wisps.

In their distraction, neither had noticed the Queen observing in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what the necklace looks like: [Necklace](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/e1/33/84/e13384fa2178fd9d4694e382a43d4c1c.jpg)


	3. Ylva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Loki in this one. The next chapter will be almost entirely Loki though.

Ylva rubbed the pad of her thumb across the swirls of the necklace. It felt like wood, as it always had. It was wood. Until tonight, she had no reason to think that it held any significant beyond its sentimental value. Although, perhaps she should have. Hildr had been surprisingly vehement about where Ylva could keep it.

* * *

_A little girl stood crying as she watched the second of her parents burn into stardust. She clutched at the wooden necklace her late mother had passed to her. She had died a mere fifty years ago, and now Ylva found herself with neither her mother nor her father._

* * *

_“Ylva, you serve us now. That is the debt you owe us for caring for your ailing father.” The blonde that had asked, until the months when her father started to fade, to be called “mother” now demanded to be called “Lady Hildr.” Her golden eyes, that had once seemed kind, now narrowed and carried only steel. “Servants do not adorn themselves with necklaces. Remove it.”_

_The little girl gasped with horror. Remove it? It was her mother’s she could not, and she said as much. “No!”_

_“No?” The self-proclaimed Lady icily inquired. Without warning her hand shot out and with a sharp smack, backhanded the little girl. The force of the blow was enough to unbalance her small body and send her tripping to the floor. Shocked, the girl remained frozen for a moment before gingerly prodding her now burning cheek. Tears welled in her eyes and the girl sniffled, her breath starting to catch._

_Hildr stepped closer and the girl seemed to shrink in on herself as she cringed away. “Remove. It. **Now**!”_

* * *

Ylva closed her eyes, a hand unconsciously moving toward her cheek that twinged in phantom remembrance. She had been a stubborn and willful child and that was not the last time Hildr confronted her over the necklace. A few more smacks curbed her attitude, but it had been the threat to destroy the necklace that ensured its disappearance from her person.

She was merely a little girl then and she had taken Hildr’s words at face value. By the time she would have been old enough to question it, she had forgotten in light of all the other miseries the family of three had heaped on her. Ylva still kept the necklace close to her and regularly cleaned it to ensure it would not weather, but it had never again meant so much. She never again felt that it could not be removed from her. She could not afford to; so she had buried all her sentiments for it in her heart and buried the piece in her drawers. It had been poor fortune and Gyða’s particularly vindictive streak earlier that day that brought the necklace out in the first place.

Ylva never thought the Queen of all people would recognize it. She had never even considered the idea. Why would she?

* * *

_“A lovely necklace, and an impressive piece of seiðr.”_

_Ylva froze, startled by the new voice. She turned slowly, wary of who clearly witnessed the entire scene. Even though it was apparent she was a servant answering a summons, she was still trespassing in the Royal Palace. Doubly worrying was that she had been caught casting seiðr, a rare skill especially for servants. It was a small mercy that Nobles often gave personal servants enchanted talismans for summoning purposes. At the very least, teleporting would seem unremarkable._

_Upon glimpsing the **Queen** standing by one of the more distant columns, all the blood drained from her face. For a moment Ylva thought she would pass out, but she quickly regained as much composure as possible._

_Nearly instantaneously, Ylva kneeled – virtually collapsing into the position – with a fist across her heart. “My Queen, my sincerest apologies. I have no excuse.” Ylva uttered the words with genuine respect, but also genuine fear and resignation that she was about to be punished for her transgressions. A lack of respect, trespassing, wielding power atypical of her station, using it to deceive her mistress. The list went on._

_She remained kneeling, eyes cast down, even as she heard the gentle rustle of the Queen’s skirts. Stopping a few feet from her form the Queen clasped her hands and made herself appear as nonthreatening as possible._

_“You may rise. I am not angry.” Ylva took a deep breath and slowly unfolded herself and rose shakily to her feet. Her gaze flickered toward the Queen’s before darting away again. The odd expression that momentarily crossed the Queen’s face went unnoticed._

_“The necklace had an interesting choice of design.” The apparent non sequitur confused her before she realized the Queen must have been referring to the first half of her comment._

_“I... suppose it was. I have had a necklace like it since I was very young.” Even as she replied, Ylva spared a moment to wonder why her seiðr casting gained no further comments. Lost in her thoughts and bemused relief, she was greatly startled when one of the Queen’s hands gently tipped her chin up; she had not even noticed her move closer._

_“Surely, I am not so frightening.” The words were said softly and gently, but with the slightest hint of amusement. Taking the statement to be rhetorical, Ylva said nothing but maintained hesitant eye contact. This time Ylva noticed the odd searching expression that crossed the Queen’s features. After several long moments of awkward – for Ylva at least – silence the Queen stepped away again, her hand falling to her side._

_The Queen smiled at her, expression and voice still gentle. “I apologize for startling you. Please, return to your duties, I have no desire to cause you trouble.” Accepting the clear and polite dismissal for what it was, Ylva, though still feeling off balance, offered a deep bow and turned to leave._

_“Well eve, my Queen.”_

_“Well eve,” echoed back to her as she stepped through space and into her own room. Upon returning she pulled the real necklace from her drawer and proceeded to stare at it for a long while._

* * *

Ylva continued to process the whirlwind of events. Eventually her mind began to calm, and knowing she needed something to focus on, she fixated on one thing: _Hildr knows something._

She rose to place the necklace back in its box in her drawer and then began to pace. Lip between her teeth she thought about what she would have to do. Hildr would certainly never tell her anything. Whatever she knew, she wanted it hidden even back when she was still a child. There was no chance of being told now. No, Ylva would have to discover it on her own somehow. If Hildr truly wanted something hidden she would keep it with her... or she would destroy it. Ylva did not have the power to discern the past so her hopes rested on Hildr keeping something in her chambers somewhere.

Unfortunately, she had no idea as to where. By the Realms, she did not even know what she was looking for or even if there was anything to find in the first place. Ylva pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration, assuming there was anything to find, there was still the issue of retrieving it. Unfortunately, Hildr was the only other person in the household that knew anything about seiðr. Her casting abilities did not go beyond conjuring a few flames for candles or simple cleansing spells, but she could sense presences. That was problematic as Hildr rarely left her chambers.

* * *

For once, fortune smiled on Ylva’s endeavors, shortly before Gyða was due back, Hildr left on an errand. She mentioned that she did not trust Ylva to handle a gift for Gyða and thus would go herself. She could not send a servant because it was a seiðr sensitive gift and none of the others possessed any abilities. Dagný would be left in command, but she was hardly an obstacle. It did not take much to divert or manipulate her.

At the soonest opportunity, Ylva snuck off and occluded herself from other’s sight. Hildr’s chambers were large with a receiving area, separate bathing and bed chambers, as well as several storage spaces. Even with Dagný distracted, Ylva doubted she would be able to search all the possible space manually.

Closing her eyes, Ylva took a gamble. Carefully, she cast out thin streams of her seiðr hoping to sense something, anything. She stood stiff for several long moments fearing that this was all in vain.

Jerking suddenly, Ylva let out a slight gasp as her seiðr brushed over something. She could not accurately describe the sensation, but it was as if soft feathers made of warm water were caressing her back. _Surely, that is it_ , she thought to herself. Not wasting a moment, Ylva briskly hurried over to the source of the odd resonance. It was coming from behind a hidden panel in the vanity.

Casting a net of seiðr, Ylva felt around for any possible traps, but if there was one, it was overwhelmed by the water feather sensation. Hoping her luck would hold, Ylva slid a finger nail along the seam of the panel and popped it open. Inside there was a few leaflets of parchment and a thin, intricate ring. The ring held an enchanted and was clearly the source of the energy her seiðr was reacting to. Unfortunately, she could not take it with her; it would be too obviously missing. Instead Ylva scanned the papers hoping they contained something of import.

She was disappointed that the leaflets had little in terms of clues. However, she was overwhelmed with a flurry of other emotions when she noted that these were letters written by her mother. They did not relate to anything particularly astounding in the grand scheme of things, but they recounted events of her life. These were precious articles that she had never even known about, and now that she did, she could not even take them with her. Aggrieved and mournful she determinedly took note of the two most relevant pieces of information.

All the letters were addressed to the same person, a woman referred to only as “My dear friend Inanna.” And more importantly a signature.

_Ingríðr of Vanaheimr._

* * *

Ylva breathed in the fresh air as she made her way outside. Hildr had still not returned and Gyða still had several days left of her stay at Valaskjálf. Dagný, enjoying her new found authority, had just ordered her away on several errands. Ylva intended to make the most of her excused absence.

Swiftly, she made her way toward the stables. Upon reaching them she was met with the delighted whinny of her faithful horse. Even in her overwhelmed state, the frustration and confusion caused by recent happenings dimmed in his presence. She could never be unhappy to see her beloved horse; a gift from her father and mother both. The handsome stallion tossed his head with affection, and she came closer with a coo.

“Svinnr! I have missed you, dear one.” She reached out to stroke the soft skin of his nose. In turn he nuzzled her hair and shoulder with a pleased nicker. She laughed, heart lightened and immediately happier.

With only a gesture her cumbersome skirts melted away into tan riding breeches and a black tunic. A quick twist of her wrist conjured an apple to her hand; a gift Svinnr gladly accepted. Ylva had been exponentially increasing her seiðr usage during the last couple of days. If she were to ever make her way to Vanaheimr she would need it.

Forcibly re-banishing her more troubled thoughts, she smiled moving into his stall and taking a brush to run through his coat. No matter how Gyða conspired to run her ragged Ylva had always made time for her beloved horse. However, the past several weeks, the last couple days in particular, had been extraordinarily busy and she found less time than usual for Svinnr.

She gladly took this opportunity to make up for lost time. Her hands unconsciously found the correct picks and brushes and the familiar methodical nature of grooming helped soothe some of her turmoil. After several passes with various brushes, his beautiful black coat became glossy once more.

Svinnr shifted, growing increasingly eager to head out, and the light set his red highlights gleaming. She liked to imagine that those faint glints of red were evidence of a lineage that could be traced back to Blóðughófi. It was a foolish idea, but Svinnr was swifter than any other horse she knew. Strong too. And loyal beyond a fault. The least she could do in return was claim that he descended from the steed of a God.

A few more moments passed as Ylva finished the last few brush strokes. As the brush fell back into its holder, Svinnr eagerly prodded the ground and tossed his head. Ylva chuckled and patted his neck, “Fancy a ride today, Svinnr?” The horse whinnied joyfully in response. She grinned and tacked him up quickly.

The two all but raced from the stall, equally eager for freedom. Svinnr paused before his hooves hit grass, patiently and loyally waiting for her. With the smooth ease of long practice, Ylva swung herself into the saddle. Mounted and steady, the woman and horse galloped into a blur as they flew across the grounds.

* * *

“Right, how about that clearing up ahead?” In response Svinnr slowed his pace to a lazy canter and then a trot. He finally slowed to a stop with a gentle – and frankly redundant – tug on the reins.

“Swift as always, my friend.” Ylva punctuated her regard with another pat on his neck. Dismounting with grace, she moved away and allowed Svinnr to wander at his leisure knowing he would not venture far.

A careful examination of the clearing allowed her to see the surrounding trees along the perimeter. The far side was a decent distance away, about 100 meters or so. After a deep breath Ylva began to teleport around the clearing.

First, she practiced accuracy by line of sight and her return to Svinnr through the imprint of his presence. The return trip was far harder, but she grinned in triumph when she managed it. As the day progressed she practiced speed, multiple jumps, and trained her endurance. When her vision blurred as she came out of a teleport and stayed hazy for several moments, she knew it was time to stop.

* * *

Ylva all but collapsed into bed with a groan. After returning from her ride with Svinnr, Hildr had also returned, and clearly angry about something, she had given her an exhaustive list of tasks. The errands she ran for Dagný had taken an hour total, teleportation practice another hour; Hildr’s errands took the rest of the day.

The busy work was tiring, but it also gave her time to think about her next and more important issue. While her teleporting abilities seemed to be fine, she had no idea how to ensure no one else knew what she was up to. As much as wished to, Ylva could not just leave without any leads, she would have to return and ensure her disappearances went unnoticed. And it would be a disaster if anyone saw her teleporting back. She was aware that proximity wards could alert her if anyone was in her room before returning, but she had no formal training and did not have the slightest idea how to go about constructing one. She would have to improvise, but she feared her crude methods would be sensed by Hildr.

Still lying face down on her blanket, Ylva released a heavy sigh hoping to have a solution before Gyða returned. If she succeeded, even if Gyða endeavored to take out her frustrations on her, she would have an escape.

* * *

Ylva stood looking out over the grounds in jubilant triumph. She had managed to accomplish everything the day before Gyða's return. Her proximity ward was shoddy at best, but functional for her purposes, and had the bonus effect of making it easier to teleport to her room. It was likely unwise to start her journey today when she did not know what Gyða's return would herald.

Even so Ylva has been patient for centuries, enduring all three members of her stepfamily and all their abuse and pettiness and cruelty. In this matter Ylva had no patience left to give, she would accept the consequences come what may, but she would be starting her journey _today_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the end of my update streak, but I still have a lot of plans and ideas.


	4. Loki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki Friggson's (Laufeyson's? Laufeyjarson's? Odinson's?) Day Off. 
> 
> Or the one in which Loki sleeps around the Nine Realms. And the one where he did a nice thing that one time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My longest chapter yet and exclusively Loki. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I'm not displeased either.

Loki smirked and his reflection scowled back at him.

“Come now, I thought satisfaction’s not in our nature?”

The other Loki sneered, “'Tis not. That does not mean I am pleased that you can go gallivanting around the countryside while I am subject to utter tedium.”

The first Loki held his smirk, for he was certainly well pleased. Not only was the Double an impressive piece of seiðr – after all, it was a copy capable of interacting with others and making autonomous decisions – but he also possessed a large streak of schadenfreude. Besides, the brilliance of Doubles was that they shared memories; he may be the one leaving, but both would possess the same memories.

For all intents and purposes, there were now two Loki’s.

* * *

Not long after vanishing from the Palace, Loki found himself seated in the shadowed corner of a tavern. With some chagrin, he admitted that his escape was not quite as clean and unnoticed as he had hoped. His mother, in her normal all-knowing way, had caught him on his way out. She clearly did not approve, but neither did she stop him. This time it was his Double that smirked at him as he departed mildly flustered, but with his mother’s implicit, albeit reluctant, permission.

Looking around, his index finger idly traced the rim of a tankard. He reminisced with remarkably little bitterness that it was not all that long ago when he would frequent such places with his brother and his warrior companions. Not all that different in company than by his lonesome, Loki would still have found himself lurking in a darkened corner. The only difference was that entertainment provided itself readily in the form of Thor’s and his companions’ often idiotic actions; quips at the others’ expense would easily rolled off his tongue.

Now it amused him how without his brother's huge shining presence and all the other Warriors’ generally rambunctious natures, people's gazes slid right over him.

...Well, his seiðr helped too.

His eyes unfocused as he cast his mind along the seiðr link that tied him to his doppelganger; he peered through and saw a crowd identical to any he had witnessed himself at past Galas. Well pleased with his choice, he refocused his attention on his surroundings.

Content to keep a low profile, the tavern he was frequenting was hardly high class. It was fairly small with wooden fixtures and metal tableware. Not the most well lit of taverns, there were in fact many dark corners in which Loki was able to lurk. Therefore, he would hardly call what he was doing right this moment gallivanting, thank you very much.

 _Although that could change_ , he thought feeling a familiar sense of mischief rising within him.

Seeing as he was disguised and had nothing better to do, he decided that he would return to the tricks of his youth. He could hardly call himself the God of Mischief after all, if he did not have a little fun. Quite unlike when he was a child though, he did not even have to make a gesture to sow his Chaos.

A quick glance around revealed several possible targets consisting of multiple groups engrossed in drunken revelry and numerous items rather questionably balanced. A subtle nudge here and a stumble there was all it took.

Quite suddenly the entire tavern erupted in pandemonium. A rather impressive set of chain reactions saw to it that at least three separate brawls had broken out, each attracting its own rowdy audience. One man suddenly found himself thrown head first into a table, shattering it, while another was chucked clear through a window. This was met with an equal clamor of cheers and angry bellowing.

Tables, chairs, tankards, and all manner of objects were upended, broken, and pitched with surprising accuracy (considering the average intoxication level) at others’ faces. Loki noticed with no little amusement, that _somehow_ several goats had also found their way into the mayhem and were running wild. Several people tripped up as a goat ran past and not a few women’s skirts were torn and munched on by the hungry farm animals.

His work done for the night, Loki silently slipped out amidst the increasingly loud calamity.

* * *

Settled in an entirely different tavern with its own unique dark corner, Loki resolved to himself to _not_ cause quite so much bedlam here. It simply would not due to lead his mother directly to him with scenes of his characteristic Chaos popping up across the Realms. _Although_ , he privately conceded, _should she truly wish to find him nothing he did would conceal his presence from her_. (A deeply buried part of him clenched as he remembered that not even a Titan and the expanse of the Void beyond Yggdrasill managed that).

Banishing such thoughts, Loki surveyed this new tavern. It was nearly identical to the one he had just vacated, noticeable calmer though of course. He was resigned to quietly sipping his mead this time, until his eye caught notice of a rather familiar scene.

Across the room, there sat a rather pitiful example of an Æsir. He was a particularly drunk man sitting at the bar demanding that a serving wench continue to pour him ale despite his abysmally poor state. With a curl of his lip, Loki noted that his clothes and general appearance were disheveled. His hair and skin appeared to be unwashed and unkempt, while his tunic and breeches were dirty and ripped. The man made such a pathetic sight, that were it not for his next act, Loki would almost have felt bad for what he had planned. Almost.

As it so happened, uncharacteristic pity was unwarranted. When the serving wench next came around she suddenly found her arm snatched. With a surprised yelp she tumbled forward sending her sprawling over the man with the ale following after. The cretin raved with a contemptuous mix of lust and rage, his hands crudely groping her while he yelled and blustered.

The part of Loki that was Gentleman and Prince took umbrage at such a sight. With the predatory grace of a panther, he rose from his seat and stalked over. The woman was still struggling and managed to land several solid blows. Upon seeing his form looming over her captor, she fought even more furiously, unsure of his motives. He tried to give her a reassuring glance before his expression iced over.

“Pardon me.” The voice that spilled from his lips was pure silken menace, and even as inebriated as he was the vermin had the wits to recognize it. Freezing in his clumsy and undesired advances, the pitiful creature slowly turned his head. Still red in the face, he seemed to be working up the nerve to rage at him, only to stop short upon catching sight of the expression on his face.

Locking gazes Loki continued, “It takes a certain type of... cur to accost a woman as you have.” Somehow his expression seemed to darken further. “If I were you, I would release her.”

Conflict appeared in the wretch’s eyes as his ego warred with his survival instinct. Loki almost hoped he would attempt to fight him, if only to have the satisfaction of teaching such a mongrel a lesson. Fortunately, for said mongrel he backed down with a sneer and scurried out like the coward he was. Unwilling to let him go unpunished, Loki cursed him with increasing misfortune for every time he showed such disrespect. It would be unsurprising if such a pitiful creature turned up dead due to it, but that was of no concern to Loki.

The woman whose grey eyes had been warily glancing back and forth between her assaulter and her apparent rescuer, now settled her gaze on him.

“Thank you.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, expression casual once more. “It was my genuine pleasure.”

This seemed to amuse the woman, her tense frame beginning to relax. With a flick of ashen blonde hair, she inquired, “What, you derive pleasure from scaring poor fools witless?”

He chuckled. “Well, yes, on occasion.” Sweeping into an overly dramatic and gallant bow he continued, “And it is always particularly enjoyable to do so in the defense of such a lovely maiden.”

Unbidden, the woman’s lips twitched into a smile even as she snorted at his use of the word “maiden.” Flattered, but unwilling to make it too easy she sarcastically drawled, “Such a noble hero.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a shout from nearby. “Fulla, you are not paid to chat up customers like some harlot! Get back to work!”

The now named Fulla jumped and made to return to work before Loki smoothly interjected, “It was I that asked that she speak with me. I will gladly pay the coin that her distraction may cost you.” With a negligent flick of his wrist, Loki tossed over several gold coins, far more money than necessary.

Greedily, the man rubbed the caught coins with his fingers and, without even glancing up, eagerly agreed. “Fulla, keep up the good work.”

On guard once more, Fulla cautiously eyed him, “I do not appreciate being bought like a whore.”

Raising his hands innocently, Loki replied, “I was honestly enjoying your company and wished to continue to have it. Recently, there have been few women who converse with me with even half the wit you have.”

Still apprehensive, but knowing she had little say and willing to give him the benefit of the doubt in light of his earlier actions, she flirted back, “Well, I suppose I can understand them being a bit dumbfounded.” Her eyes unashamedly raked over his features, looking appreciative of his chosen appearance.

Slightly tousled brown hair paired with piercing hazel eyes. A chiseled jaw accented with trimmed facial hair. Tan. Tall. Well-muscled. While his illusionary vestige would not stick out in a crowd, he was still handsome and a classic example of an Æsir warrior.

She licked her lips as she finished her appraisal, “Since I seem to be your companion for the night, do I get to know your name, my most mysterious savior?”

Playing along Loki bussed her knuckles as he would at Court and gave her a heated glance, “Ásgeirr, my Lady.” Caught off guard by his much more forward advance, she could not stop a mild blush from painting itself across her cheeks.

Despite her initial resistance, between his charm and hers, it did not take long for the two to fall into bed together.

* * *

Fulla hazily stared up at the ceiling, delightfully debauched and still catching her breath. With the last aftershocks of her orgasm fading away she breathed out an impressed, “ _Gods_.”

Smirking with masculine pride, Ásgeirr turned on his side, head propped on a hand, to admire her still flushed state. She turned her head to match his stare, eyes lingering on the rather impressive cock that he unashamedly did not even attempt to cover with the sheets. _Not that he has cause to be ashamed_ , she thought still high on pleasure.

After catching her breath a bit better, she added, “I would not mind if you did this more often.”

Still smirking, Ásgeirr leaned forward to peck her lips before retreating again to speak, gently tugging her bottom lip as he did so. “I would not mind either.” He had not retreated far and his lips brushed against hers as he spoke.

As soon as he finished speaking, he resumed his kiss, rolling on top of her simultaneously. He paused, his eyes peering inquiringly into her’s and gave her time to voice any objections, but she just moaned and bucked into him. Leaning down he smothered his grin in the smooth expanse of her throat and planted a trail of kisses from the edge of her jaw to her rapidly beating pulse.  
Round two was just as pleasurable as round one.

In the morning, Ásgeirr finally departed leaving behind a tired but extremely well sated bed-mate.

* * *

Later that day, Ásgeirr meandered through a marketplace, stopping periodically to examine various pieces that caught his eye. Several pieces of jewelry were particularly well crafted, and he made a note to return for them later. With an added enchantment, they would make a fine gift for his mother.

Farther down the path, there was a blacksmith with a fairly expansive array of weaponry. Loki carried all the weapons he needed in an extradimensional space, but Ásgeirr certainly did not. Fiddling with a plain – he flipped and twirled it a few times – but well balanced dagger, he was impressed with the workmanship. The dagger was return to its set which Ásgeirr promptly picked up to purchase.

Scanning the displays a bit more carefully now, his eye also spotted several spears and glaives. Making note of a few specific ones, he tested the balance and sharpness of each, and found them all to be just as well forged as the daggers. Curiously he noted they were also forged to channel a simple battle enchantment. This was not unusual for weapons created for the Einherjar, but to discover it in weapons created so distant from the Palace was impressive.

Deciding to test it, Ásgeirr nimbly twirled his selected glaive and channeled a spark of his seiðr. As he did so the glaive neatly and swiftly retracted into a metal pole about the length of his forearm. Pleased with the display, he twisted his wrist to expand the glaive once more. A few more uses of the enchantment showed that the glaive retracted and deployed with quick ease each time. Setting it aside, he tested the spear which displayed equal craftsmanship.

Spear, glaive, and dagger set in hand, Ásgeirr moved to pay for them all. The transaction was quick; a few coins later and he had a complete weapons set. Business concluded, he made to leave until a commotion caught his attention. _Twice within twenty-four hours?_ He wondered with no small degree of incredulity.

“Are you playing me for a fool? Who made these?” Angry shouting drew Ásgeirr farther down the stalls.

“I just told you, you moronic fool. _I did_.” This voice was a woman’s, a clearly infuriated woman who was managing to mostly keep her composure.

“You?” The words were said with a scoff and a sneer. The two now in his sight, he could see that the belligerent man punctuated his statements with a poor attempt at an intimidating loom. He said ‘poor’, because the woman remained unfazed. Or rather she was not fazed in the way the brute would wish her to be; she was clearly ready for a fight if it came down to it, and Ásgeirr had no doubt she would win it.

This time he had no intentions of interfering, quite sure the woman could handle herself. He crossed his arms and nonchalantly leaned against the frame of one of the stalls.

“Yes. Me.” Her tone was frigid and her dark brown eyes were daring her opponent to make a scene.

Sensing he was outmatched, but unwilling to concede due to his pride the man continued to bait her. “Aye, sweetheart, so you claim.”

Used to such condescension, but no less incensed by it, the brunette retorted, “I could not care less what a chauvinistic, egotistical ignoramus like you thinks of me. So believe me or not, either way buy something or get out. I will be glad to see you go.”

Enraged the man drew back to strike her even as he shouted, “You little bit-” The words were cut off in a harsh gasp of air as the woman smoothly flipped him over her shoulder and onto the ground. She sneered down at him while expertly flicking some of the daggers she snatched from one of her own display racks.

Her aim was exact, hitting just above his shoulders and slicing the ties of his pauldrons without even nicking the skin beneath. “My weapons seem to be of superior quality to your armor. ‘Tis a shame your pride prevented your purchase of them.”

Humiliated, the man gathered the tattered remains of his pride and armor and scrambled to get up and leave. She calmly watched him scamper off, pleased with herself.

Ásgeirr chuckled and applauded her while wandering closer. “That was quite the show.” The woman whirled to face him already scowling, her mouth opened – no doubt to use her acidic tongue on him next – but he interrupted. “I am not mocking you. Your skills in both forging and fighting are something to be admired.”

Her scowl slightly subsided at his words, but she softened more when she noticed his purchases. More accurately, when she noticed he knew how to retract his purchases which now sat tethered as seemingly innocuous short metal poles at his hip. “So, there is finally a man who knows how that works.” She looked challengingly at him, still fired up from her last confrontation. “But can you wield them?”

He returned the look. “I can, _expertly_.”

“Care to prove it?”

* * *

Ásgeirr stood across from the passionate brunette, glaive in hand. She took a stance opposite him, wielding a sword with clear prowess. Curious about her abilities, he took a testing swipe at her legs. She nimbly leapt over his slash, but clearly did not expect him to reverse directions so quickly and re-aim at her torso. A flash of her sword parried the blow with only a slight stumble on her landing.

He grinned at her and began speeding up his strikes. His opponent dodged, blocked, and counterattacked when she was able, but gradually he was pushing her back. She was very good, but he was a Prince of Ásgarðr who had had some of the finest tutors in the Realm and centuries of battle experience.

In a startlingly fast maneuver, he caught her sword and flung it away before knocking her feet out from under her and pinning her to the ground. She panted beneath him, reluctantly impressed despite herself. “Again.”

They fought several more bouts, Ásgeirr winning all of them. The last time he pinned her they each gave into their battle lust and he took her there in the dirt. Then she flipped them, pinning him for a change, and rode him with marked fervor.

Ásgeirr had no complaints.

* * *

Despite what it may seem, Ásgeirr did not _only_ bed women. He offered his assistance on occasion as well.

* * *

A few days after encountering the lovely blonde and fiery brunette, Ásgeirr found himself wandering the forest. His original intent had been hunting. If he returned with game to trade, then he could linger in town longer and not draw attention to himself. That plan quickly changed when he sensed flares of seiðr.

It was certainly a very curious phenomenon. While seiðr craft was not looked down upon – unless, of course, you were a man – it was fairly unusual to find a lone practitioner so far from any major city. It was true that all people possessed seiðr, but few knew how to wield it and fewer still could wield it in quantities that could be sensed at a distance.

Only Nobles were regularly taught. Peasants, on the other hand, were rarely taught. On occasion, a particularly powerful one would be discovered, and as it was dangerous to leave them untutored, they would be taken in by the Palace or another prestigious institution. Those this strong – and what he sensed was certainly strong – were not left to their own devices in the countryside.

He had no desire to startle a potentially volatile practitioner, so he opted for a careful approach. His mount had been left tethered several hundred feet back and he approached silently on foot. After several moments, he finally came across the source of the energy he had been sensing.

Peering into the small glade, he spotted a young woman. Even had he not moved so silently he doubted she would have detected him. She was clearly deeply focused, with her eyes scrunched shut and her brow pinched in concentration. From where he stood, he only had a side view and could not quite make out what she was doing. It also did not help that she was building up a large amount a power with frighteningly little skill. This is why they were sent away to be tutored.

No sooner had he finished his thought did she cast with a surprisingly visible surge of seiðr. It rose from her hand and enveloped her form. He could see that she was trying to cast an illusion, but her method was akin to hammering a sword rather than weaving a shroud.

Although, he had to give her credit, the illusion she was attempting was quite complex. It seemed simple in theory, as the purpose was to go unnoticed. However, it was much harder in practice, and she was going about it in the entirely wrong manner at any rate. Frankly, it was appalling to witness as a master of seiðr and especially as a master of illusions.

Unable to allow this to stand, Ásgeirr declared, “You are doing it wrong.”

The girl whirled around with a startled yelp and a swish of brown curls and cloth. As she turned, an uncontrolled burst of seiðr shot from her hand. Thankfully, Ásgeirr was expecting that and smoothly dodged to the side.

He repeated, remarkably unruffled, “You are doing it very wrong.” The girl spluttered with indignation, her blue eyes flashing with a mix of fear and anger.

“And what makes you such an expert?” She snapped. The way she eyed him made it clear that she was well aware of the lack of male seiðr users and was highly skeptical of his supposed expertise.

Ásgeirr had a ready excuse, as the best lies were of course the truth masked in misdirection. “I am able to activate basic weapon enchantments, but my mother is a vǫlva of notable skill. I have seen her cast illusions and other seiðr craft many times, certainly enough to know when another is doing it wrong.”

More accepting, but still doubtful she sarcastically inquired, “Well then, O Mighty Master, might I persuade you to teach me?”

“Gladly, this was becoming appalling.” He took a moment to appreciate the girl’s increasingly riled demeanor before becoming serious (taking one extra moment to be amused by her clear surprise at the sudden transition).

“My mother has always wanted me protected, and it was her philosophy that even if I did not wield seiðr I would at least know when it was wielded against me. You are trying to occlude your features, but not your presence, yes?” He paused for a moment and she responded with a startled yes, still a bit taken aback, although grateful for the genuine teaching. “Try again,” He commanded, eyeing her speculatively, wanting to see exactly how she was attempting to cast.

She furrowed her brow at his demand, but acquiesced. With a calming breath the girl gathered her seiðr again. This time she had slightly better control and after a shimmer of light her features became hazy. It was better, but still quintessentially incorrect. The girl was trying to project a static image rather than the fluid concept this illusion demanded.

While all illusion craft should be flexible, many of them could be cast rigidly. This one could not. The mastered form of this illusion made it so any who beheld the wielder would see the most uninteresting features. It had to be able to change depending on the perceptions and preferences of the beholder. The goal of the illusion was not to blur the features, as that would be noticeable, but rather make the user appear so ordinary so as to be forgettable.

“Relax,” he told her, “you did much better when you refrained from forcing your seiðr.” Wondering if she had the instinct to be a vǫlva, and not just the power, he added, “Let your seiðr flow, it cannot be contained for this illusion.” A glimmer of understanding appeared in her eyes before she closed them.

Ásgeirr looked on with interest as he sensed a loose net of seiðr form around the girl. Then, the cords unraveled into wisps that encircled her faintly enough that he barely sensed them. As he watched, the girl’s appearance started to shimmer and swim; there were flashes of blonde hair and brown eyes and then brown and blue again. It was far from perfect, but it was significantly better. Ásgeirr was almost proud of his impromptu student.

After several hours, he departed. By the time he left, the young woman had mostly mastered the spell. As he left, he glanced back over his shoulder – mildly interested – and tagged her with a tracking spell.

Ásgeirr disappeared into the forest with a smirk and a vow to keep an eye out for the girl. After all, he would be a negligent and foolish King to forget about an untrained girl trying to cast such illusions.

* * *

Good deed done, he soon returned to _bedding_ women. And a few men.

Another blond against a wall.

A redhead with her legs flung over his shoulders and his head buried between her thighs.

Fulla, again, who willingly knelt for him.

The feisty brunette warrior, whose name he discovered was Brynja, who rode him a second time.

Several more blonds. In a chair. On their hands and knees. In the bath. On a table.

Two salacious twins that worshiped him in tandem, and to whom he happily returned the favor.

And a couple of times he was a she, and she greatly enjoyed being under and over several men. And several women.

* * *

“Bedding every woman in the Realms will not win you a wife, my son.” Frigga’s voice and shade suddenly appeared in the room Loki had been lounging in. Having been taking a pause from his very pleasant and relaxing – but quite physically active – destress campaign, Loki had dropped his illusionary appearance and was quite unprepared for his mother’s visit.

Startled and indignant he inelegantly squawked, “Mother!”

The Queen simply raised a graceful eyebrow.

Quelled Loki sighed, “Yes, well it is certainly pleasurable, but you are correct. While several of them are quite charming and witty, none of the ones I bedded would be interested in being my wife. And I am not interested in being husband to any of them either.”

The Queen’s expression managed to be mix of disappointed and disapproving, “None of them, my son? Perhaps, you have simply not searched well enough.” The Queen shot him a pointed look. “At least not beyond a bed.”

A quip about not always making it to a bed was on the tip of his tongue, but Loki swallowed the impulse. Not even he would make such a base remark to his mother. Instead, he simply nodded.

“See that expand your search, Loki or your Double will find itself dispelled.” A little horrified at such a prospect Loki verbally agreed and resolved to cease fooling around so much. Besides, while a year was not even up yet, a decade was not much time, and Loki did want the Throne.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what some of things looked like.
> 
> Daggers: [One](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/368521181991943840/) [Two](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/368521181991943847/) [Three](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/368521181991943826/)
> 
> Spear: [Spear](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/368521181991943631/)
> 
> Glaive: [Glaive One](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/368521181991943606/) [Glaive Two (The one he bought)](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/ARRulmIAl6kRmLMoDYx_wJ19r5m8VgVBMTQxAHEpquskcU3nBjrjfPM/)


	5. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exclusively Ylva. Her journey does not have the most auspicious of starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back over my past chapters and made a few edits. I would advise rereading, but it's not crucial. Most changes were syntactic in nature, but a few better clarified characterization in my opinion.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry it's been a while, but I am a very bad updater. Hopefully, the next chapter will be out sooner.

Light touched the horizon casting streaks of orange and yellow, cutting swaths in shadows. Dawn crept over the land trailing fingers of sun in its wake. The glow bathed a towering tree in gold. Among its branches a gleam of vibrant red flashed. The silhouette could barely be made out among the leaves and branches. A soft sigh sent wisps of white breath into the crisp air of early morning.

* * *

High noon saw the bustling activity of a small town nestled in the bosom of rolling hills. The fresh green color of the new growth of Spring painted the landscape. Occasional breezes sent the grass blades rustling and carried the sweet, heavy odors of blooming flowers. The smooth lines of slopes were broken by vegetation, mostly shrubs and bushes, but occasionally a tree or two.

A particularly tall ash tree provided the perfect vantage point to overlook the town. In its branches a silhouette had turned into the figure of a young woman. She was still well-hidden on her tall perch; the muted brown and green colors of her tunic and cloak blended with the crisscrossing lattice of bark and leaf. Vibrant red waves of hair were tucked away in the hood of her cloak.

* * *

“By Yggdrasill!” She cursed to herself, voice soft but vicious. Even capitulating to Gyða or Dagný and their aggravating whims did not fill her with so much self-hatred. For the first time in centuries, Ylva was choosing to do something for herself, fulfil her own desire. The determination and enthusiasm that pushed her from the manor hours ago had burnt out and left a hollow pit behind. _Coward._

A curled fist smacked into the rough bark of the ash tree. Ylva breathed out with a harsh rush of air and slowly uncurled her fist. With deep breaths, she refocused her gaze on the town and forcibly relaxed her tense posture.

A woman walked through the crowded streets, the hand of a young boy held firmly in her own. Several stall vendors shouted prices and enticements. Trails of people walked by with arms and shoulders laden with heavy supplies. Hefty bags of grain or rice. Fertilizer. Wood boards. Metal ingots. Ylva’s eyes tracked them all and envy curled in her breast.

Envy for their simple lives. Simple, but not easy. She imagined they had troubles like anyone else, but they could live as they chose with straightforward problems and obvious allies. They had support and love.

With a shift shake of her head, Ylva banished her self-pity and finally pushed herself from the tree’s embrace. She fell swiftly, but landed lightly, shifting her weight to cushion the minor shock. Hands brushed specks of dirt from her cloak and smoothed tiny wrinkles in her tunic.

Ylva threw back her hood and sunlight glinted off her now blond hair. Her green eyes reflected the blue sky, shining and shifting with a swirl of color until green faded to blue. The sharper angles of her face softened and rounded into a more youthful and delicate visage. Ylva’s disguised appearance was no less lovely than her normal looks, but far less striking. Irritatingly, she did resemble Dagný quite a bit now, but she comforted herself with the thought that the colors were typical of Æsir.

With that final thought bolstering her courage, Ylva strode into town.

* * *

The bustle and activity of the town was even more lively as she stood within it. It was far from the largest village she had been in; after all, the sisters or Hildr regularly sent her on various errands to fetch items or issue their commissions. However, this visit was not due to command or even the rare escapism and leisure. This time she had a purpose. A frighteningly beautiful purpose that she could feel stretched out before her as a great abyss. Too dark to measure its depth and with no way to see its bottom.

A tangled mess of emotions burned through her veins as Ylva continued to simply stand there. She gave herself a quick mental slap and attempted to pull herself together. It was sheer fortune that Gyða was not due back yet and that neither Dagný nor Hildr saw much use in her presence today. She did not have time to dawdle.

Straightening up, Ylva steeled herself and started to weave through the crowds. She kept her ears tuned and her eyes peeled as she wandered. Gossip was perhaps one of the easiest sources of information, and information was what she needed. Vanaheimr was Realms away, and she could hardly beg use of the Bifröst. Nor was she a Skywalker as the Prince was rumored to be.

Just as the daunting nature of her task began to overwhelm her again, the wares of a nearby stall caught her eye. Its racks were decorated with various jewelry from across the Realms. Nothing as high quality as Dwarven work, but there were telltale shimmers of metals and artistic motifs native to Álfheimr. A simple arm cuff was adorned with a single volcanic rock that she knew to be found exclusively in Múspellsheimr.

She had never given it much thought before, but the merchants must have established trade routes between the Realms. Focus found, Ylva narrowed her attention to the various craft workers and traders. Now the question was how she could make her way across their Paths. There was no chance that such regular world travel was unguarded or unmonitored.

Her musings became interspersed with curses as she felt the mild burn of a summoning. A whole morning wasted on nerves.

She would not make that mistake again.

She swore it.

* * *

_One Month Later_

The room felt heavy with silence.

“Girl, you think I’m some kind of fool?” The voice was gruff and littered with undertones of incredulity and traces of anger.

Something in her expression must have cracked because the speaker’s countenance softened. His next words, while still gruff, were laced with pity.

“Look girl, I’m a simple smith in a simple town. Got no time for baby mages.”

Desperation born from dozens of doors shut on her drove her to make one last entreaty. Every denial had been a brutal blow, and this was one of the few that had even bothered to truly speak to her rather than laugh her out of their shop. Or throw.

“I have some training. I…” She stuttered searching for a deal to offer. “Give me some scraps!” The words burst from her lips in a frantic tumble building momentum as she went along. “The basic premise. A little time. I swear to you, I can figure it out. I swear. And if not, you need not bother with me again.”

The two locked eyes, one pleading the other pitying.

The man broke the deadlock first, turning and disappearing into the back. The girl’s shoulders slumped in dismay. Her gaze fell to the counter as her vision began to swim and blur with childish, childish tears. _What was she expecting?! Fool!_

_...There was no point in trying a sixth town was there? It was over._

The sudden appearance of a hand in her line of vision and a loud clattering sound jolted her from her self-pity and despair. A fragile kernel of wary hope swelled in her breast as her eyes darted between the pile of metal and the man’s face.

The man’s next words were almost gentle. “Go to the next town over. There’s a man named Torunn there. He has a few apprentices. Tell him Agnarr sent you. Ask for some advice.” The man gave a nod toward the scrap pile. “Come back with a half-decent enchantment on those and maybe I could find a use for you.”

The lack of a true promise did not go unnoticed, but the little hope kernel grew anyway.This was the best offer she had. Hel, it was the _only offer she had._

She inclined her head, far more deeply than manners would dictate, and offered a heartfelt and slightly watery, “Many thanks.”

* * *

“By the Norns! Surely my offenses are not so great as to be cursed with an apprentice of such _incompetence_.” The last was sneered down at the bowed head of the apparent apprentice. From what she could see he was a young man of fair features, pale and light in both hair and skin color. It was unusual to see an Áss apprentice in seiðr. It made more sense when she caught traces of Ljósálfar heritage in the slight point of his ears.

A crash shook her from her thoughts. She refocused and saw a shield still rattling on the ground where it had been cast.

“This is a disgrace! Listen to the metal. Hear how it screams and quivers. No one goes into battle with such a shoddily crafted armament. You have been here for months, and you are still _inept at everything!_ ” The apprentice seemed to shrink into himself and was met with a scoff of disgust.

“Straighten up, boy!” The smith barked. “Your cowering won’t fix this heap of scraps.” An angry glower continued to mar his face as the boy hesitantly righted himself. After a few more moments of heated glaring, the anger and disdain tucked itself away behind a wall of icy blankness. His next words were surprisingly level and smooth.

“What’s the very first thing I ever teach?”

The boy gulped. “Your seiðr resonantes with the world, sir.”

The smith raised a brow.

With a mild stutter he hurriedly added, “A-And everything you craft resonates with it.”

“Explain this, then.” The smith demanded prodding the discarded shield with the toe of his boot.

“A-ah, um, well-”

“Enough.” Despite the harsh interruption there was no visible anger this time. “You’re dismissed.”

A stunned silence settled over the room.

“M-Master Torunn, please! I can do better! I-”

“ _You are dismissed._ ” The smith turned away to straighten something on a self. With fists clenched at his side, the boy visibly swallowed back further protest.

“Yes, sir,” he choked out before storming out the entrance. Ylva doubted he even noticed her standing there.

The silence returned this time marked with Ylva’s awkward shifting. After a deep breath, her lips parted prepared to plead her case only to startle when Torunn suddenly addressed her.

“Are you just going to gawk, girl?” He had not even turned to face her, still fiddling with something on the self. The man seemed harsh and unsympathetic, but this was her only chance. Meekness would not due.

She had sworn.

Ylva inhaled sharply through her nose and slowly approached. “I only require some basic instruction. Agnarr told me to seek you out.”

Turning at the mention of Agnarr, she saw a brief expression of surprise cross his face. It quickly dissipated into intense scrutiny as his eyes narrowed. “Agnarr never sends anyone.” She had no proof, and her thoughts raced to come up with something to convince the man. Seeming to notice her racing thoughts, he continued, “I care not. What do you know about seiðr?”

Nothing. Her mind was completely empty. Panic started to swell within her as she recalled how the boy was just dismissed. Frantically, she cobbled together thoughts and theories and speculations. She licked her suddenly dry lips knowing any answer she had would be insufficient.

His eyes narrowed further as he gave her no chance to answer. “You have the audacity to show up here knowing nothing.” His phrasing was flat. It wasn’t really a question, and it’s not as if she had an answer to it anyway. Instead she boldly met his stare. _No meekness. Had she not long endured Hildr and Dagný and Gyða?_

Something like approval flashed in his eyes. His lips quirked and an expression of mixed amusement and malevolence decorated his features.

“Very well, girl, show me you’re not a complete waste of space.”

Torunn turned away again, this time moving toward the back of his store. “Bring the shield,” he commanded as he continued to walk away.

Ylva quickly stooped to pick it up and nearly dropped it again as she hissed. It burned her! _The other boy’s seiðr?_ She tightened her grip on the metal and hurried after the man, ignoring the slight burn.

At the first possible opportunity she set the shield down, just shy of dropping it on the back table. Torunn gave her a knowing look. “So you did sense it, good.” She unconsciously rubbed her fingers on the cloth of her tunic, trying to ease the discomfort.

“You have some capability to sense seiðr, but can you cast? All the theory in the Realms is useless if you can only conjure sparks.” He flicked his fingers toward the shield. “Channel your own seiðr into that until I say.”

Warily, Ylva barely brushed the shield with her still stinging fingertips. Her brow gained a slight furrow as she began to channel. Slowly, a faint gold aura rose in wisps from her hand. As the light enveloped her hand, the lingering pain faded in the wake of the warm rush of her own seiðr. Soon the shield also began to give off a faint glow.

Several moments passed as Ylva continued to push more and more seiðr into the shield, giving it a proportionally brighter glow.

“Halt!” Ylva jerked her hand back a moment too late, and watched with astonished eyes as the shield became a misshapen mass of molten metal. The glow of seiðr vanished with her hand and the molten shield immediately harden into oddly formed scrap.

She glanced up worriedly. Torunn was not angry only speculative and perhaps every so slightly impressed.

“I see power won’t be a problem with you.” He continued to gaze at her; she shifted, mildly uncomfortable with his regard. Ignoring her discomfort he nodded toward the former shield.

“Channel again, and follow my instructions exactly.”

* * *

_Six Days Later_

“Well, girl, I could almost call you an adequate beginner now. You sure you don’t have any inclination to stay longer?”

From Torunn, such a question was the closest one could get to a compliment. Ylva hardly minded his surly nature, as despite his brusque attitude and tendency toward insults, Torunn was in fact a brutally effective instructor. He gave her a solid foundation in enchanting incredibly quickly. Still, she wished to repay the man that truly gave her this opportunity. So she nodded in reply.

“I enchanted the pieces Agnarr gave to me.” Here she paused for a breath, as she trailed her fingers over the parcel containing all the pieces she had finished. “If nothing else I should return these.”

Torunn made a low noncommittal noise. “Consider returning sometime, girl.”

Ylva gave a slight smile as she picked up her parcel and turned to leave. Her foot just crossed the threshold when a passing comment froze her where she stood.

“I never did get your name. I called you girl and you made no comment.” His tone didn’t sound accusatory, but it was notably mild. She pivoted slightly to peer back at him. Nothing in his expression hinted at what he might be thinking.

She wavered uncertainly. Ylva did have a false name prepared, but not for this appearance. As much as she felt grateful to Agnarr, he was a smith not a merchant or trader. It was highly unlikely that he would travel to Vanaheimr. She had intended to pick a temporary name while she traveled back to give to Agnarr while she repaid her perceived debt. She had not anticipated Torunn caring what her name was. _Stupid!_ She cursed to herself knowing she already reacted far too visibly.

Torunn gave a huff of amusement and waved her off. “Nevermind, girl. I care not for whatever demons you are fleeing.” With that parting comment, he retreated into his shop.

Ylva was relieved at the easy acceptance, but also mildly suspicious. Unfortunately, she could not afford to look a gift horse in the mouth. She finally departed, resolved to settle on another false name as quickly as possible.

* * *

When Ylva entered Agnarr’s shop, she was greeted with a flurry of activity. It was the busiest she had ever seen the place. Somehow Agnarr spotted her amidst the chaos and nodded toward the back room.

“Wait for me in there, girl.”

* * *

Sometime later, Agnarr entered the back room with a tired sigh. “Torunn informed me you did good work.” Catching sight of her expression, he chuckled, “Not that he used the word “good.” Now, let’s see here...” He trailed off into mutters as he shifted through the contents of the parcel.

Ylva forcibly stilled any fidgeting as she watched him peruse her offerings. Finally, he made a noise of approval. “These are quite nice. Could sell some of these.” He straightened up. The way he eyed her made it clear that Torunn likely shared more than just backhanded compliments.

“What will I be calling you, girl?”

Her suspicions confirmed, she still heard no trace of judgement, and she barely paused before answering, “Erna, please.”

“Well, Erna, we have a lot of work to do today.” For now she withheld her worries and decided to simply be thrilled with her current fortune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be on the look out for a side story that will serve exclusively as an info dump. I should have it up in a few days. It's mostly going to be images and some world building that's not really story relevant, but simply for fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Expect sporadic updates.


End file.
